Breaking Point
by WynnWyvern
Summary: He had her attention. She had none of his.


Lord Commander Jon Snow certainly surprised her.

As she swept down upon the Wall, he first regarded her and her dragons with quiet, suspicious awe. Then, as they discussed strategy and tactics, polite reservation. He was a true man of the North, icy, honorable, practical. He never swore allegiance or fealty (the Black Brothers took no part in kings, queens, or politics), but saw the great benefit of the use of dragons. And if the Wall fell, there would be nothing left to conquer.

He intrigued her. So accustomed to the open affections and attentions of men, she didn't even flinch as the crows of the Wall took in her form with hungry gazes and smirks. She was untouchable, but no one would stop a man from lusting over a beauty such as she.

However, Jon Snow, a _man_ in all sense of the word, was a comely, rugged outdoorsman with a cool countenance about him. He was strong, firm, carrying himself with an almost animalistic nobility with his direwolf at his side. He had _her_ attention. She had none of his.

It was unsettling and displeasing. She'd never given chase before, certainly not for a _man_. And in the dark of the night, curled up in her furs all alone with no one warming her bed, she frowned and convinced herself not to worry so much over the Lord Commander. Many others would gladly court her, blindly in fact. Why trouble herself for not gaining the attention of a single individual? Her late husband, the mighty Khal Drogo, was a magnificent man, full of strength and masculinity. And Daario Naharis was charming and certainly _experienced_. Jon Snow was simply Jon Snow, dedicated to the Wall and the protection of the realm.

… But, oh, she knew she was deceiving herself.

Was it his grey eyes, alert with youth, yet swimming with depth and secret pains? Was it the slight quirk of his lips, the paleness of his skin, the strength beneath the many layers of black fur and feather? Was it the quiet, steadfast sense of duty and justice, with the underlying tenderness of a man who _cares_ for others? Was it the gentle fondness that came over his usually reserved expression when he recounted memories of his favorite siblings or the care he showed to his Ghost?

Alone in those furs as she was, she couldn't help but let her hands slip down her body, under her smallclothes, thinking of his strong hands, calculated expression, and, secretly, his incredible ass.

It had been weeks since her arrival to the Wall. The plans had been set and the time was drawing steadily near. Still, Lord Commander Snow displayed little change in his demeanor toward her, despite her small flirtations. A touch of the shoulder, a teasing smile, engaging conversation. She'd learned of him, slowly, as he told stories of the North, his childhood. And she'd found him to be quite the good listener as well.

They were alike in many ways, still searching for themselves given their own circumstances. Her lust for him warmed even further, despite his cool disposition, as she'd found a kindred spirit in him.

But on one particularly cold day, when the frigid air was biting and tensions were rather high and their conversation turned to the topic of his father, Eddard Stark, something had changed, too quickly, too drastically.

She retreated to her room immediately after the confrontation, shivering (from the cold or the shame?) and bundled the furs about her on her bed. She couldn't even recall what she'd said. Only how she'd said it. And yes, it was cold, but it was the truth. Eddard Stark had a hand in the destruction of her family, and so the Starks were essentially her enemies if they did not bend the knee to her. She was a Queen. She had no time for a softness of heart because she held unrequited feelings for his bastard.

Daenerys realized her mistake as soon as the words left her lips.

Jon Snow, usually collected, had whirled about, eyes blazing with a certain _fire_ that was so uncharacteristic of him. He defended his family, right there before the Queen, and those present could hardly utter a word. He was insolent, overstepping bounds that Daenerys wouldn't tolerate from anyone else.

He might've been right; his father, even according to others, was an honorable man with a good heart (who had even defended Daenerys, herself). That did not assuage his guilt or his actions, of course, and the Mother of Dragons would never forgive him for such circumstances.

Still, Jon Snow's words penetrated her in an searing, icy burn, and though her pride refused to let her show remorse before everyone in such a way, as soon as she was alone in her quarters, she rethought and let her hindsight display who she was.

She could hear Viserys there, in her words to Jon Snow regarding Eddard Stark. For once, she felt genuinely ashamed. Challenged and insulted, yes, but ashamed nonetheless. Through the counsel of Ser Barristan, Ser Jorah, and anyone else, she still held firm, unshaken, but receptive. But Jon Snow had touched her to the very core and made her so … _angry_. In such a way that it helped her to discover the growing arrogance about herself.

Maybe she should've punished him. Maybe she should've thanked him. Maybe she should've left the Wall to their own devices, without the dragons to assist them. Maybe she should've kissed him.

Jon Snow confused her.

Especially when he appeared at her door one night, expression carefully controlled, but his eyes both frigid and burning strangely with something she couldn't name.

She didn't know who gave their polite apologies first. But as soon as the words escaped them, the stony, cold Lord Commander shattered. In the cold space between one moment and the next, he'd brazenly stepped forward and crushed her tiny body into his own, his lips on hers as he kicked the door behind him closed.

In the back of her mind, she questioned it. He'd never shown her any sort of special regard. He held to his vows with a vice-like grip, never even taking part in the whores that the other Black Brothers had. He was a man of practicality and honor. And there he was, giving her _exactly what she wanted_.

That night, she realized, he was experienced. He had a talented tongue, his hands were as strong and dominating as she'd dreamed, his eyes were a fierce, storming grey that had her begging for him with a simple glance, his hips were demanding, greedy, and _so good_.

There would be guilt later, she knew. On his part, mostly. And though, by the end of the night, she knew she had fallen hopelessly in love with him, this would be their first, and last night together.

Daenerys could only take comfort in the fact that she wasn't the only one to give in.

* * *

_Thinking of doing Jon Snow's point of view, and then a sequel. We'll see how this goes!_


End file.
